Cleansing
by Silence-Speaker
Summary: Stoick's thoughts after Hiccup fought the Red Death.


Disclaimer, I own nothing to do with How to train your dragon film based on Cressida Cowell's book series.

Just me rambling really. Stoick's thoughts after Hiccup fought the Red Death at the end of the first film.

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The day Stoick realised that his son actually was brave was one of the worst moments of his life.

Well, that wasn't quite true, at the time he had been more preoccupied with the mortal danger his small son was throwing himself into without hesitation. He had been filled with fear for his son's life. Hiccup always looked terribly small to Stoick's eyes, so fragile compared to the sturdy youths that filled Berk and that wasn't even mentioning the solid adults, but he seemed so impossibly tiny when pitted against that monster of a dragon, the monster of a dragon Stoick had drawn out with his own blind stubbornness.

However, after the events of that day (a day that was branded into his mind with a fire far hotter than dragons breath), after Hiccup's survival was guaranteed not just hopeful prayers...well, after that as Hiccup lay sleeping in his bed that the full implications struck Stoick.

Well no, that was when an inkling flickered at the back of his mind...it was only when he questioned the young Hofferson girl, Astrid, and received a veritable fountain of knowledge that just made him greedy for more, that he truly began to _know_ the depth of his folly.

"How did this all begin?" Was his first question, the words escaped his mouth without prior thought. A startled blink was his response as the girl reluctantly looked up from Hiccup's prone form.

"How did what begin?" The girl suspected, knew what he was angling for but the wariness in her made her press for specification. Even from the Chief.

"This," Stoick gestured to his son, to the missing space where a foot, an ankle, had once been and to the dragon quietly crooning, big eyes latched unwaveringly onto the sleeping boy.

Her lips skewed. He couldn't tell if it was amusement or disdain.

"I'm not the best person to ask."

"Who is?" He returned, one eyebrow raised. Her lips curled up once more in a bitter twist.

"He is." She gestured to Hiccup, mimicking his own movement with sarcastic flair. She had definitely been spending far too much time with Hiccup.

"And I'll ask him once he's woken up." He said knowing that to do so was probably futile. He was no good at talking with Hiccup as had been made abundantly clear. Blonde brow crinkled and blue eyes swept over the bed bound boy before lingering on the dragon curled close by.

"Tell me." He pushed. She bit her lip. "Please. I want to know." Stoick admitted, wearily running a hand over his face and resisting the urge to cradle his son close as though he were naught but a babe.

It was quiet but for the odd crooning from what Stoick had once called a devil and the crack and pop of the fire. Eventually, when he'd given up hope of an answer, Astrid drew in a deep breath, fingers toying with the edge of the coverlet.

"I only know what he told me, just before his test. I only asked what I felt was relevant..." She trailed off eyes distant, recalling something. She glanced at the dragon as the crooning halted and the great beast tucked his head down to sleep, a small smile turned up her lips.

"I found Hiccup in the cove just as he was packing up to leave," Leave!? His son had been leaving? And he hadn't known, hadn't guessed...He had been far too blinded by pride that his son was finally acting like a proper Viking. "I confronted him about his newfound ability to 'combat' the dragons...Toothless made himself known when I had an axe to Hiccup's throat, apparently that sparked up his protective side. Anyway," She continued hastily when she saw his eyebrow rise; evidently realising she had just admitted to intentionally causing physical harm to his son, the Chief's son, "well, Hiccup kidnapped me for a ride on Toothless and answered my questions."

She was leaving a lot of the tale out. Stoick was neither stupid nor blind in matters that didn't pertain to his son. And even with his son he was not always mistaken.

"He learnt a lot in such a short time." Understatement. Hiccup had a sponge for a brain, soaking up new knowledge with abandon and continually curious about the most obscure of things. Stoick glanced at the small metal pole, misshapen, that had been salvaged from the tail fin Hiccup had crafted for the dragon.

And so she told him about the 'tricks' Hiccup had learnt to subdue dragons peaceably, the dragon nip, eels, scratching them in certain ways...

It made Stoick a little concerned to realise just how eager Hiccup was to stick his head in the proverbial dragons mouth when curious. If Toothless had been just a little less humane...if one of the dragons in the ring hadn't reacted the same as the Night Fury...

Astrid left when it grew dark and Stoick was left to his thoughts as the fire dimmed down to faintly glowing embers.

He carefully stoked the flames remembering when Hiccup was just into the toddling stage and obsessed with the fire, trying to catch the flickering red flames with a small fist. He had been pleased with his little son's daring at such a young age...well, pleased up until he recalled just how dangerous fire was to _adults_ let alone a young child.

The tears, pain and burns hadn't managed to quench Hiccup's desire to hold the fire, to stroke it. No matter how many times the four year old had burnt himself (and always finding a way past the increasingly creative grates forged by Gobber to keep away tiny questing fingers) he hadn't backed down, stubbornly sure that he would succeed in his task.

How could he have forgotten that? How could he have forgotten a child's (a child who was barely bigger than his hand at the time) stubbornness, continuing despite the pain with increasing inventiveness and determination.

Was it a sign of the blindness of childhood, as Stoick had once assumed? Or was it an early display of the Viking values he had pressed his son to show?

A certain disregard for danger, unyielding stubbornness, courage in the face of overwhelming odds. This was what Stoick had been hoping for Hiccup to show for years. Along with strength and weapon prowess.

But was it Stoick who was blind to his son? Had he really missed everything he'd been looking for simply because it came in a slightly different package to the one he'd expected?

Hiccup stirred on the small wooden bed Stoick had crafted him when the last had been destroyed in a dragon raid. He watched as the boy simply shifted, a grimace of pain crossing his face, before falling back into a deeper sleep.

He sighed, pulling the rough homespun blanket over the exposed shoulders.

He'd told Hiccup time and time again to be more like his cousin Snotlout and yet who had been leading the small ragtag group of children against the Red Death? Who had been ordering them about without pause, without error and who was obeyed unquestioningly?

Who'd saved the day?

(Who had stopped his heart several times and made his knees turn to jelly with a fear he hadn't felt since he was a wee lad?)

Stoick ran a hand over his eyes, he felt like the ground had shifted beneath his feet. Or like the wool had been removed from his eyes.

It took him far too long to realise he'd done wrong by his son.

Dozens of memories swamped his mind, a different cast colouring them, tinting them a whole new spectrum.

Perhaps the other contraptions Hiccup had 'invented' had been just as ingenious as the whole flying equipment stuff (Gobber had raved about the pedal mechanism on the saddle adjusting the tail fin, Stoick hadn't understood much, he wasn't a blacksmith, but he'd caught enough to know it was complex, fiendishly clever and that he wasn't allowed to ever stop Hiccup working at the forge under pain of being disembowelled by an outraged brother in arms using a worn down wooden peg as a leg).

How many times had Stoick exasperatedly brushed Hiccup off the moment he mentioned another invention, another improvement?

And, more sinisterly, how many times had he brushed Hiccup off as weak for complaining about an injury or a scuffle?

Something icy gripped his guts when a picture of his son at ten shivering, lips purple, eyes flickering jumpily and bruises ringing his thin wrists flooded his mind's eye. He'd been concerned with the treaty with the Berserker tribe at the time but that didn't forgive the way he'd scolded his son for falling in the water again as he pushed him towards the fire, not listening to Hiccup's stuttering explanation that Dagur had been trying to drown him.

He'd assumed, at the time, that there had just been an accident with a game, that Dagur – in the way of children – simply hadn't known his strength and that Hiccup being so physically weaker...

The resignation. Hiccup had looked resigned as Stoick placed his own version of the events (events he hadn't even witnessed!) over his son's testimony. His son who couldn't lie to save his life.

Because, of course, the son of Oswald the _Agreeable_ wouldn't try to _drown_ his son and heir.

A few similar events, more than Stoick cared to admit, tainted with that squirming, soul eating mix of emotions. Guilt the black core of it all.

He glanced up, at the beams supporting Hiccup's partition of the house, his bedroom. Hidden from Stoick's gaze by the thick planks of wood was the little desk filled with Hiccup's scribbling.

He'd cast a disappointed look at his son for constantly writing, drawing, sketching instead of mucking about with the other children his age or training in weaponry, but wasn't that Hiccup's own way of training?

Keeping his mind razor sharp, making adjustments to things so that he could do the same (or better) as other Vikings even though he didn't have a tenth of their strength.

A normal child Hiccup's age could hoist up an axe with ease and throw it (accuracy depended on the person), could wield a sword one handed, could throw a bola with one finger...Hiccup couldn't.

But he had got around that, used his sharp mind (sharper than any sword Stoick had ever seen) and worked around the problem until he _created_ a solution.

All the teens and adults on the island could throw a bola...how many could invent and build a machine to throw it for them?

Stoick, Vikings in general, appreciated strength, so why had he disregarded his sons strength of mind? He had wished that some of the lads brains could be turned to muscle, before, because surely Hiccup didn't need to live with his head in the clouds?

But then he wouldn't be Hiccup.

And why would Stoick wish for a run of the mill son when he could lay claim to Hiccup? Why did he want something ordinary when he had something exquisite? Something so rare that that the like had never been seen before.

He may not understand his son, he may not even fathom the leaps Hiccup mentally took without a second thought but Hiccup was still _his son_.

He loved his son but he hadn't always been proud of him.

An unsettling thought struck, hitting him to the bone. Had he simply been afraid of the new? An old man clinging to the past as something tangible he could understand rather than letting the new innovations take the tribe further.

Innovative. His son was startlingly innovative.

Stoick had despaired once, fearing that Hiccup would be killed by one of his contraptions or that they were simply a waste of time and effort.

(Why fix something that wasn't broken?)

He sighed from the very depths of his body feeling exhaustion roll through his. A yawn escaped his lips and he wearily rubbed his face.

He had to go supervise the repairing and building of the ships (so many had been lost to that monster of a dragon), sort out the accommodation for their new...pets, quell any opposition to the aforementioned pets, plus they really needed to start storing for winter, they were late enough already as well as deal with all the other problems and difficulties that always plagued Berk.

He got to his feet with another sigh, glancing down at his son who had never seemed to easily breakable and yet also the strongest of them all.

He was like a fine tempered blade. Deceptively strong, able to cut down the strongest of foes yet one wrong hit placed at a certain point and he shattered into sharp pieces dangerous underfoot.

The dragon raised its head curiously as Stoick automatically reached out to brush Hiccup's hair away from his pale forehead.

Stoick aborted the motion halfway through and let his arm fall back to his side. His son didn't stir.

Stoick drank in the sight, battered, bruised but unmistakably _alive_.

The tight knot in his chest loosened just a fraction and he turned to leave, to return to his chiefly duties.

He was coming to see that what he had always seen as a soft exterior, frail, was merely a sheath for the steel core contained.

He glanced back just once as he left the room.

"Watch over him, beasty." He asked more than ordered.

The dragon glanced to Hiccup, made that odd crooning sound once more then rested its head upon its paws. Satisfied his message had been received Stoick left the room, leaving the scent of healing herbs and dragon behind.

He made it outside and took a deep breath of the fresh air. Hmm, it smelt like rain. They'd best get the sheep to closer pasture just in case.

"Thank you." He murmured as the door swung shut. "_Thank you_."

More important to repenting for his mistakes, more important than amends..._his son was alive._

His son deserved the amends, the apologies but it wasn't for the chance of giving them that Stoick was glad.

_Hiccup was alive_.

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Yeah, not really sure where I was going here.


End file.
